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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467399">all seem to say, "throw cares away!"</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicdonnatella/pseuds/sapphicdonnatella'>sapphicdonnatella</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>samjosh one shot series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e10 Noël, Eventual Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and im sure this idea has been done a couple of times at this point but shhhhhh, this one shot was brought to you by: phoebe bridgers's discography, we've got the best of both worlds baby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:55:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicdonnatella/pseuds/sapphicdonnatella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He rises to his feet, almost a vegetable, his hand stretching out as he approaches his window. He shifts all his weight into the palm of his hand, forcing it forward until the glass shatters, until his skin tears open at the heel of his hand, until blood drips onto his floor.</p><p>Someone knocks on Josh's door then. A crack—sharp and round and full. A gunshot.</p><p>"Josh?" a timid, familiar voice breaks through.</p><p>All the breath Josh has been holding rushes out in a crushing, relieved sigh.</p><p>Sam.</p><p>-</p><p>or: what if sam was at the door after josh broke his window?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Josh Lyman/Sam Seaborn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>samjosh one shot series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all seem to say, "throw cares away!"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphic_maul/gifts">sapphic_maul</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i started watching this dumb show that's older than i am last tuesday and now i'm on season 3 and i have so many feelings about these dumb white male politicians so i had to write about it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It happened all at once, like the blink of an eye or a sudden stealing of breath. Josh doesn't know where the memories came from, or why they're as strong and sharp as a dream you can't wake up from. He doesn't know why one of his nightmares is haunting him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when his eyes are open and his mind is seemingly alert. He doesn't know how his nightmares learned how to escape from his mind, from the backs of his eyelids. But he knows that he's sitting at the congressional Christmas party, and Yo-Yo Ma is playing a Bach piece, but he feels like he's in Rosslyn again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to focus on Yo-Yo Ma's face, the peaceful, confident expression that remains there as he plays. He tries to focus on the cellist's fingers carefully and artfully fretting the chords, balancing the bow on the sharp breadth of the strings. But he can't. He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The choppy, almost chaotic movement of the piece screams in Josh's ears—that one low note sticks out to him the most. The way it drones, stretches itself out between the fleeting flurry of notes in front of and behind it. It's short, almost percussive, a gasp in an otherwise airy and delicate piece. It sends its claws down Josh's throat and into his stomach, making it turn and twist to avoid its sharp blades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a bitter, sour taste in his mouth. Bile? He tries to swallow it, but it lingers. He feels like he's thrown up, but he hasn't. That he knows of. He can't say he doesn't hear people around him yelling and crying out because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's just not the voices he knows would belong to the people sitting around him. It's strangers, ghosts he's hearing. It's the voices of the people who last saw him alive, at least the Josh that he felt he was before. Really, the Josh he was born as died with his sister when the flames swallowed her up. The pieces she left behind were shattered again when his dad didn't leave a routine chemo appointment, his heart dying instead of the cancer. And those last few pieces Josh had left stained the ground beneath him in Rosslyn, the small wall behind him. That's the Josh that these voices saw die—the one cowering in a corner with a massive hole in his chest and no one to hold him as he falls asleep for the last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those torturous low tones keep coming back, like the first, frail drum of a heartbeat. The notes following it seem to fade as if they weren't in the piece at all, but were simply breezes harmonizing together outside. The second thrum of a heartbeat is replaced by sharp exhales that are squeezed out of Josh's lungs, rhythmically somehow. He's hyperventilating, he realizes in the back of his mind, but he feels so out of control he can't bother to try and even out his breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, all too suddenly, he feels a bullet strike his chest. He feels something warm, something wet slicking over his skin. He feels a thousand things explode at once—his skin, his ribs, his lungs, his throat, his mouth. He can't breathe, he can't see, and all he tastes is blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutches the wound, but there's nothing there. A scar hidden beneath his shirt, of course, but nothing that could kill him if someone doesn't find him in time. Still, his mind overpowers; his mind fills with thoughts that aren't his own. The thoughts of a dying man.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I've been shot. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I've been shot and I'm going to die. I'm all alone. No one knows where I am. I'm going to die. I'm going to die alone in Rosslyn, Virginia. Almost two years of campaigning for gun control and now I'm going to be another statistic. I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels something cold on his face now, tastes something salty in his mouth. It's not blood; it doesn't have that metallic tang. No, he's tasting tears. They're falling from his eyes in sheets, in rivers. He can't make his tears stop. He can't make the memories stop. He can still feel the bullet relodging itself, tearing open his scar until it unravels farther across his skin, like a growing crack in a frozen, thinning pond. The pain is unbearable, burning and scourging and searing and tearing. He wants to scream, but he has no voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees a shape in front of him, but he can't quite make it out. It's saying his name, but then pauses. It starts yelling for a doctor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shape kneels in front of him, reaches out for him and cradles its hand against his face. Exhaustion overcomes him, his body going slack and falling to the side. The shape catches him before his head collides with the ground, gently laying him down on his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More shapes run up to him, gathering around him. He hears their voices shouting over each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We have a single gunshot wound. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not seeing an exit wound. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He's losing a lot of blood. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>B.P. is 90 palp. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Josh, I need you to stay with me, okay? Focus on my voice. Keep your eyes open. You're safe now, and everything is gonna be okay. Just stay with us. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to, he really does. But he feels himself slipping away. He feels a part of himself rising just above his body, still connected but the strings of it are stretching, thinning. His eyelids are heavy, almost swollen as they start to drift closed against his will.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't want to fall asleep. I don't want to die. I'm too afraid. Please, I don't want to die, I'm not ready to die, don't let me die, PLEASE—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The music ends with a flourish—an extended note cutting off with almost half of a shriek, the slitting of a throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone starts applauding and rising to their feet, but Josh can't move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darkness creeps in the corner of his vision, clouds his mind. He's dying again. He's dying all over again. He hates the way it feels. He hates that he's dying at the congressional Christmas party, that he's dying in a suit that's one size too big, that he's dying sitting perfectly still and perfectly silent. He never thought he would die quietly, and he certainly never thought he would die like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only manages to get half of a grasp on reality when the room goes quiet, but it's hard to breathe. He wipes the tears from his face, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. His thoughts take over again, trying to calm the mind they came from.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My name is Joshua Lyman. I'm the deputy Chief of Staff at the White House under the Bartlet administration. Today is December 19th. Sam is sitting behind me. The President is sitting two rows in front of me. If I turn my head the right way I can see all my friends. I can see Toby, C.J., Donna, Leo, Charlie. I'm here, and I'm alive. I didn't die in Rosslyn, and I didn't die here tonight. I'm alive. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But all the grounding in the world doesn't seem to make the ghosts go away. He still feels a phantom pain where the bullet entered his body, where it shattered into shrapnel against his ribs. The pain seems to throb with every beat of his desperate heart. The screams have become the smallest whispers in his ears, yet they feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>deafening</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He shivers from the cold settling in his body, the chill of leaking blood rusting as its iron finally meets air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every member of Congress is in this room, yet Josh feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So alone he wonders which will kill him first: the phantom bullet, or the loneliness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't remember the end of the party, or how he got home. The next thing he knows he's walking through his front door, his vision blurry from nightmares, throwing off his jacket and ripping open his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand shakes as he pours himself a drink. The bottle clinks against his glass and he flinches, another burst of memories fracturing through his mind. He watches as thin, shining amber fills the glass, shapes giving way to hazy colors. Somehow—as far as he knows—he didn't spill anything. He sets the bottle aside, dreading the moment he'll need a refill and another clink of glass will send him reeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drinks in small sips, his throat too thick and swollen to down the drink in one gulp. It's bitter and sharp, like the taste in his mouth that he thinks sent him spiralling in the first place at the party. But it's warm, too, spreading through his body slowly. It tingles, leaves him fuzzy at his edges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He learns all too quickly that he shouldn't drink when he's like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before, he could at least feel his true body beneath all the chaos. At least he could recognize that someone, something else was inhabiting him and he could tell himself that he'll learn how to separate it from himself somehow. At least there was a piece of himself left that he could grasp onto, however small and however hard to reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even after a few sips, Josh feels dizzy, inebriated. Maybe his system is even weaker now. The room spins around him, and he's bleeding into the picture. He's at the center of an alternate universe, where red and blue lights swirl endlessly around him until he has to close his eyes to steady himself, leaving everything in darkness. But darkness doesn't drown out noise, and the sirens get louder and louder until they wail like banshees, until they groan like a brass quintet, until they shriek like bagpipes, until they moan like a low cello note. Sirens are </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, hiding in every particle of matter hanging around him. They're </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he can't escape them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs at his eyes, forcing this alternate universe to the back of his skull (</span>
  <em>
    <span>out of sight, out of mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he reminds himself). He wills it to hide beneath the tail end of his brain, where it almost knots. But it uses the tail to crawl back up, then crest every fold like water, to bleed into every grain of soil like poison. Every time he forces it back, it returns, each time stronger than the last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then the thoughts do something they haven't done before. They start moving forward, marching on through time until they slowly begin to reach the present. Before, it felt like they were attacking the Josh that was shot that night. That Josh and the Josh that survived only happened to share the same body. The threats feel so much more present now, feeding on recent events, recent weaknesses.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Robert Cano. A man who was nearly killed serving his country but couldn't shake it off. A man of appearances who shed them all off when he went home at night and thought about ending it all. A man who </span>
  </em>
  <span>did</span>
  <em>
    <span> end it all because keeping up an appearance became too much to bear. A man who's dead now. A man they couldn't save. A man born on the same day as Josh. A man Josh couldn't help but see himself in. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Joshua Lyman. A man who was nearly killed serving his country but couldn't shake it off. A man of appearances who shed them all off when he went home at night and thought about— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"No…" his voice speaks against his will. "No." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dying thoughts come back to him almost as loudly as the sirens that are still droning in his ears. He tries to feed them, tries to reason with himself before he spirals even further.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I do it, Mom will be all alone. If I do it, everyone will miss me. If I do it, it'll hurt the President's chances at re-election. If I do it, I'll be like Robert Cano and I don't want to be like Robert Cano, I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can't</span>
  <em>
    <span> be like Robert Cano. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I DON'T— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He rises to his feet, almost a vegetable, his hand stretching out as he approaches his window. He shifts all his weight into the palm of his hand, forcing it forward until the glass shatters, until his skin tears open at the heel of his hand, until blood drips onto his floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh stares at his hand, watching blood seep from it slowly. If he starts to make a fist, a small burst comes flooding out, and a sharp pain rips through his entire arm. He's almost in a trance, the sirens subsiding as blood trickles down his arm, the back of his hand. He studies every drop, and they become a rich, red mirror, reflecting his face with its wide, panicked eyes and gaping mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone knocks on Josh's door then. A crack—sharp and round and full. A gunshot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh?" a timid, familiar voice breaks through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the breath Josh has been holding rushes out in a crushing, relieved sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sam.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you okay?" Sam's voice continues when he doesn't hear Josh reply. He sounds concerned, urgent. "I'm pretty sure I heard glass breaking."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh suddenly begins to crumble, realizing that having someone here also means that he'll need to explain </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> he needs someone here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> the window is broken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C-come in," Josh manages, holding his injured hand behind his back. "It's open." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, and the first thing Sam notices is the broken window. His eyes widen and his face pales. He crosses, almost runs, over to the window, leaning out of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh, what happened?" he asks, confusion and urgency mixed in his voice. "Did a kid throw a baseball or something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Josh breathes, gathering the courage to come clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why is there blood on the floor?" Sam asks, his voice hushed now, but still laced with panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's chest is tight, and his hand is throbbing. He swallows thickly, unable to look Sam in the eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh, why is there blood on the floor?" Sam repeats, raising his voice now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I broke the window, Sam," Josh mumbles, ashamed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Sam asks, quieter than a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I broke the window," he answers, slowly holding out his hand for Sam to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes it, his face growing more pale somehow. He shakes his head as he studies the wound. "Why?" he asks, looking up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh shrugs weakly, his throat swelling again. "I… I couldn't make it stop." Josh closes his eyes, hangs his head, hopes Sam will know what he means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You couldn't make what stop?" Sam asks, his voice gentle yet close to breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh opens his eyes only to find tears brimming there. He bites his lip, knowing it won't make his tears go away. He hasn't cried in years. He can't even remember the last time he cried. He knows he's never cried in front of Sam before, and he can't explain why he hates the idea of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh, you couldn't make </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop?" Sam repeats, broken now. "Please talk to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The </span>
  <em>
    <span>sirens</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Josh chokes out, a tear finally rolling down his cheek. "I couldn't make the sirens </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you talking about?" Sam mutters. "There were no sirens."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know," Josh blurts, immediately regretting his sudden temper. He pulls his hand away from Sam, holding it to his chest again. "I know there weren't. It was… I was hearing the sirens from Rosslyn."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understanding and heartbreak cross over Sam's face at the exact same time, and it manages to rip a sob out of Josh's throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was back in Rosslyn, Sam," Josh continues, his voice thick with his tears. "And I was stuck there, and I couldn't get out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At the party?" Sam asks, trying to keep his voice calm and even now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm still stuck there right now, Sam," Josh shakes his head, feeling the phantom pain again, feeling it getting stronger and stronger. He clutches his scar, biting back a groan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh…" Sam says weakly, taking a step closer. He dips his head slightly, gathering courage, strength before looking back up. "Is—is that why you yelled at the President earlier?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh clenches his hand, wincing when the pain shoots up his arm again. He breathes for a moment, searching for an answer. "I don't know," he replies lamely, shrugging. "I don't really remember everything I said. I…" he trails off as he thinks back, as he finds the answer he was looking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes another careful step, but Josh can tell by the look in his eyes that he doesn't know what to do next, what will and won't cross a line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The pilot," Josh mutters, thinking out loud. "Robert Cano. He had a Purple Heart. He was injured, but he came back to work and it was harder to cope than he thought it would be. He felt powerless, unimportant. No one was listening to him. He wondered if anything he said was worth listening to, and he decided it wasn't. So, he killed himself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's eyes widen again as he puts the pieces together, too. "Josh, please don't tell me you've been—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The President wasn't listening to me, Sam," Josh continues, not hearing Sam's plea. "No one was listening to me. The sire—the music was too loud. The—the music Toby's had playing was too loud. I knew I was right about all of that stuff. About Didion, about SPR, the IMF debt. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> I was right but the President wasn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>listening to me</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I couldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. You have to understand, Sam, you were there. He wasn't listening to me, wasn't he? We all know that I know what I'm doing. I'm powerful in this administration. The only people I answer to are Leo and the President. I helped him get elected. This administration would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> without me. Why wouldn't he </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Why won't </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> just </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen</span>
  </em>
  <span>?!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Josh,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam repeats as he takes Josh by his shoulders, his voice somehow firm and kind at the same time. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm</span>
  </em>
  <span> listening."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's breath is stolen again, but in a way that doesn't leave him breathless or panicked. It feels like Sam has said </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me breathe for you for a moment</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And Josh is ready to let someone else breathe for him for a moment, but his mind won't let him surrender his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look, we've been worried about you, Josh," Sam says. "Really worried."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It hasn't felt that way," Josh replies, sounding more bitter than he intended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know," Sam concedes with a sigh. "I know it hasn't. And I'm sorry none of us acted on our worry sooner. Me, especially. I've known you for years and I know you'd rather handle it all yourself than ask for help, but—" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't want help," Josh interrupts, his voice thin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> help, Josh," Sam responds, squeezing Josh's shoulders. "The past three weeks have been different than any other time I've seen you stressed or upset or just… not yourself. It's been different."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three weeks?" Josh asks, his brow furrowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ever since you heard about that pilot, you've been different," Sam shrugs. "Sometimes you're irritable and short-tempered, and other times you're distant and quiet. Either way, none of us could reach you. Not me, not Donna. No one."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh sighs, unable to come up with a comeback, a defense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Toby told me about the day that bagpipe regiment played in the lobby," Sam continues. "You called them sirens. You almost said sirens again a few minutes ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh closes his eyes. "I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And he noticed you while Yo-Yo Ma was performing," Sam says, a little more quietly. "He said you were a deer in headlights. He said he barely recognized you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh inhales sharply, both from the memory and Sam reciting Toby's words. "Can… Can we not talk about the party? Please? Not yet, anyway."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam sighs, but nods. "Okay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," Josh mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh," Sam begins, taking a moment to ponder, shake his head. "You were shot earlier this year. You were in surgery for 12 hours. You almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We never expected you to be completely back to normal when you came back to work. We never expected you to act the way you did before the shooting. You're not the same person anymore, and that's okay, and that's not your fault."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But what if I don't know who this new person is?" Josh asks quietly, letting the thought seep into his mind. "This person I'm becoming. What if I can't figure him out? What if I feel like I'm trapped inside a person that I don't recognize and that I'll never truly know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam doesn't answer immediately. He studies Josh's face, as if he'll find an answer written between the worry lines there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't look in the mirror anymore, Sam," Josh admits. "Ever since I heard about Robert Cano. I can't look in the mirror. I can't look at my own hands. I can't look at the scar. I— I can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Sam—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh suddenly feels Sam's hands cradling both sides of his face. They're rough, toughened by writing thousands of drafts, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too. They tilt Josh's head to look forward, straight into Sam's eyes. Josh always forgets how </span>
  <em>
    <span>blue</span>
  </em>
  <span> they are, almost unnaturally so, but of course someone like Sam would have such unmistakeable eyes, so strangely beautiful… But then Sam blinks, and Josh is forced out of his trance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam still doesn't talk. His thumbs trace a few centimeters of Josh's cheekbones but pause, pulling away until their touch is lighter than a feather. Sam looks at the floor, and unless Josh is seeing things, his eyes glance at his lips as they travel down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam," Josh says, half a question, half a statement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's eyes look back up into Josh's. He nods, probably to himself, and his hands drop back to Josh's shoulders. "Leo told me he's going to set an appointment with ATVA for you," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Josh sighs, nodding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If there's anyone that can help you recognize this person you're talking about, it's them," Sam nods back. "And I can come with you, if you want. I can wait outside until you're done. I can take you home."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The appointment is supposed to be on Christmas Eve," Josh says. "Don't you have plans?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My parents can wait a day," Sam replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, Sam—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They can wait," Sam reassures. "I'll have plenty of Christmases with them. I almost didn't have another Christmas with you, and I plan on taking advantage of it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's heart stutters, stumbles only to find itself somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere where it feels loved. But his mind falters, too, and it forces words into his mouth. "Sam, I'm Jewish, remember?" he chuckles awkwardly, then presses his lips together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam doesn't laugh. "You know what I mean," he replies seriously. "You're always here for work during Christmas, and it wouldn't have been the same if you were gone. I would go by your office, expecting you to look up from your work for a moment and make a joke about my plane crashing, but someone else would be sitting there. You wouldn't be there to say goodbye. And it would be the last time I left the White House for the last year you were there. And when I would come back, it would be the beginning of the first year without you. And you wouldn't be there to groan about how I didn't die in a horrible, tragic accident over the holidays."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I didn't die," Josh says. "I'll be here to say goodbye."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's lips tremble as he smiles, then nods. He keeps his eye contact with Josh for a moment, his smile fading as he's lost in thought. He shakes his head lightly, an unreadable expression on his face. "You know," he begins, taking a deep breath. "Right before the surgery, you were talking about New Hampshire."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was?" Josh asks, unsure how else to react. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I told you that we both made it there, but I don't think you heard me," Sam continues. "Then someone pushed me out of the room and they put you under."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I really don't remember," Josh replies, rather lamely. He adds with a weak chuckle, "I don't know how I stayed awake so long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes his hands off Josh's shoulders, wringing them instead. He shrugs. "The last thing you said was, 'I need to get to New Hampshire'," he mumbles. "If those were your last moments, you would've forgotten everything we did together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's brows furrow again. "Sam, we did things together before we started working for the President."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nothing like what we've done these past two years," Sam argues, putting his hands in his pockets now. "But that one ten second interaction keeps me thinking about what would've happened if you didn't feel Bartlet was it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He was always gonna be it," Josh says. "We were always gonna be tied up with him. And maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he gestures vaguely at his chest. He feels his throat swell again, and he has to force his voice out of it as he continues. "Was always gonna happen, too. It destroys me, it eats me from the inside out, but there was nothing any of us could've done to stop it, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say that," Sam begs, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh starts to flinch, but he manages to hold most of it back. He doesn't know why he reacted that way. Maybe it was just Sam's voice. He looks down at the floor, where he finds the smallest drops of blood. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "It's just that… It's hard to live when you know you should be dead."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That didn't help," Sam chokes out, rubbing at his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry," Josh repeats, feeling himself flinch fully this time. "I'm sorry, Sam."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam sighs heavily, shaking his head. "No, no, I'm sorry," he rambles. "You have nothing to apologize for. You didn't choose to get shot and you didn't choose to be traumatized by it."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Traumatized. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>word</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. Josh's hand shakes as he holds it up to his mouth to bite his nail. He feels it shake against his lips, too, and it makes him realize just </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> badly he's shaking. He bites a little harder, but it doesn't steady his hand at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was fine," Josh mutters. "I was fine until Cano. I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worry flashes across Sam's face as he realizes he may have misstepped, misspoken. "I know," he tries, his voice more tired than sympathetic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cano was some sort of sick joke," Josh chuckles humorlessly. "Some stupid prank that ended up costing him his life," Josh shakes his head, his blood nearly boiling. "It's not fair."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, it isn't," Sam agrees. He looks out the broken window, a thoughtful glaze filling his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please don't tell anyone about that," Josh says, his voice beginning to tremble again. "I'd prefer it if you were the only one who knows about this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam snaps out of his trance, and a small, clumsy, kind smile appears on his face. "Of course. I can't guarantee the ATVA people won't ask about your hand, though, Josh." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know you can't," Josh nods, shrugging lightly. "But it'd be nice if they didn't." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We should get your hand cleaned up," Sam says, approaching Josh again. "We probably need to take you to the hospital." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd rather not," Josh chuckles dryly. "I know neither of us are doctors, but… I'd really rather not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam looks into Josh's eyes for a moment, searching, then soften with sympathy. "Okay," he nods. He holds out his hand, waiting for Josh to hold out his, too. Josh does, and feels a wave of nausea when he sees his entire palm stained in deep red. Sam's face pales, too, but he manages a reassuring smile. "Okay. We just need to wash it and get a bandage." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods weakly, letting Sam guide him to the bathroom. They leave a small trail of blood behind them, but that can be cleaned up, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh winces as Sam carefully takes out small shards of glass from the wound, but Sam's other hand is wrapped around Josh's wrist, steadying him. The water and antiseptic burn so badly he nearly screams, but he manages to bite it back. Sam whispers a thousand apologies, a thousand comforts. Wrapping the gauze around Josh's hand was a bit of trial and error, but after a few moments and Sam's saintly patience, the wound was bandaged. Blood immediately begins to soak through, but Josh keeps his hand close to his chest so Sam won't see. He'll probably need stitches at some point, but he can worry about that later; after Christmas, after the appointment with ATVA. Right now, him and Sam are sitting on his bathroom floor, the tile cold beneath them, their voices echoing strangely, a faint smell of blood tainting the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You really don't have to stay for the appointment, Sam," Josh says quietly, noticing how tired Sam looks. "You don't have to stay with me tonight, either. You should go home and sleep, it's late. I'm an adult. I can take care of myself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry if this is the wrong thing to say, Josh," Sam replies, taking a deep breath. "But I don't think you can tonight."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh lets out an almost startled breath of a laugh. "What, are you gonna spend the night here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm willing to," Sam nods, that serious, determined look on his face. "If you're willing." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's forced, practiced smile drops. "Really?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Really," Sam replies, as if it were obvious. "I'll sleep on the couch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam, the window's broken and it's December," Josh says. "I don't have any other blankets you could use. You'll be freezing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll be okay," Sam dismisses, shrugging. "A little cold never hurt anybody."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell that to people with frostbite," Josh jokes, letting laughter cover up a stirring rising in his chest, an emotion he can't name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I won't get frostbite sleeping on your couch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who says?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Says someone who cares about you and doesn't want you to be alone when you're not feeling well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stirring starts crawling up Josh's throat, leaving another taste in his mouth. But it's not bitter. It's sweet. It's lovely. It's soothing. It tastes a bit like Sam's name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you still stuck in Rosslyn?" Sam asks softly when Josh doesn't reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh exhales deeply. "I don't think I ever left Rosslyn, Sam. At least, my mind didn't. It's just sometimes it feels like my body is there, too. And I have to find a way to force it back to the present. And sometimes my mind and my body blur together, so either way I get stuck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is your body blurred, then? Or is it stuck or…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh considers. "I don't think so," he shakes his head. "I think it came back once I broke the window. It didn't have to focus on the gunshot wound anymore because there was a cut it had to worry about now. But it's like I said before. Even when it comes back, it doesn't feel like it's mine. It feels like someone else's and I'm just an intruder." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You feel like you're getting shot every time the memories come back?" Sam asks, concerned but trying to sound sympathetic and understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods, biting his lip. "Every time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you can't make it stop?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No. Most times I have to wait until something else distracts me, or I have to make myself bigger than the memories. Thus, the bravado, the big act. Thus… me raising my voice at the President of the United States."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's not mad at you, Josh," Sam replies. "He's just as concerned as the rest of us. He cares about you just as much as we do. At the hospital, he begged the doctor to let him get out of bed so he could see you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh half-smiles, imagining President Josiah Bartlet himself reassuring over and over that he's fine and that he needs to see Josh Lyman immediately. He lets himself smile, laugh fully. "His face was the first I saw when I woke up," he recalls. "Can you </span>
  <em>
    <span>imagine</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting shot in the chest and when you wake up </span>
  <em>
    <span>the President</span>
  </em>
  <span> is sitting at your bedside?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Sam laughs, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was surreal for me and I've worked for him for almost three years," Josh chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They laugh for a moment, Sam leaning into Josh and resting his head on his shoulder. Josh's laughter stifles as he feels Sam's hair brush against his face, but Sam doesn't notice. Sam stops laughing, too, and the room is disturbingly quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're bleeding through the bandage already," Sam notices, worried again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh closes his eyes as he feels Sam lift his head off his shoulder, exhaling slowly. "I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I really think you should see a doctor, Josh," Sam sighs, rising to his feet. "You were the one who said that neither of us are doctors. A doctor should treat this if it's still bleeding by now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll be fine, Sam," Josh tries, but his voice doesn't come off as convincing as he'd hoped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know you don't want to talk about what happened," Sam says, sitting back down with more antiseptic and gauze. "But if this keeps bleeding we might have to go to the hospital."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Josh replies absent-mindedly, watching Sam unwrap the bloody bandage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you think you could ask Leo to have the ATVA appointment sooner?" Sam asks, shrugging. He applies the antiseptic more carefully now, apologizing when Josh hisses. "Maybe for tomorrow? The day after?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh shakes his head. "I was there when he called them, the earliest they could get someone here was Christmas Eve."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Sam wraps the bandage around Josh's knuckles. "What about that psychiatrist you were seeing a year ago?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I stopped seeing him about a year ago," Josh shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Sam replies. He wraps the bandage around Josh's wrist now, applying pressure to the wound. "Well, there's those crisis hotlines, right? We could call one of those and someone can talk to you and help you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam—" Josh starts to argue, wincing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam presses harder, almost desperately. "If we can get you to talk about what happened tonight, you'll get more comfortable with going to the hospital, and they can—"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam, I don't need ATVA, I don't need a psychiatrist, I don't need a hotline, I don't need a hospital, I need </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's heart nearly stops. He feels his mouth forming words, but he can't force his voice to come out, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's eyes are wide, and his face has paled again. His eyes seem to flit back and forth between Josh's eyes and his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need you, Sam," Josh repeats, his voice finally coming back to him. He feels tears in his eyes, but he's too tired to fight them back anymore. "I need you." He feels the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks, feels the lump in his throat grow and spill into his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's lips part as if he's about to speak, but then he bites his lower one. He hangs his head, looking at the antiseptic and leftover bandages. He turns and sets them aside, but he doesn't turn back around immediately. Josh can see from watching Sam's back that his breathing is becoming choppy, maybe panicked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh closes his eyes, looking forward and thudding his head against the wall. He tries to hold back a sob, but it turns into a wet hiccup that chokes him, stops his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, he feels Sam's hand on his face, turning his head. He closes his eyes, lets the sobs tear out of his throat. Sam wipes away his tears gently, as if he were some fragile, beautiful thing. Josh has never let himself feel so vulnerable before, but under Sam's touch, he doesn't mind as much. Sam waits patiently for Josh's tears to dry, keeps his hands on Josh's face, stays silent. If Josh were to break now—and he thinks he already is—there would be nowhere else he'd rather be. Held captive by Sam's hands, by his eyes, held together by him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam tilts his chin to press a kiss to Josh's forehead, to his brow, to the tip of his nose. Every touch sends a chill down Josh's spine, makes his heart skip a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need you," Josh says again, his lips millimeters apart from Sam's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need you, too," Sam replies, promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh doesn't know who initiates it, but he knows that he's kissing Sam and Sam is kissing him. It's barely a brush, the most innocent thing, but Josh feels his heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>bursting</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his chest, bleeding and weeping and sighing. As soon as they break apart, Josh weaves his hands in Sam's hair to bring him closer, to kiss him again, deeper and deeper. It's a slow, gentle dance, a balancing act between the years behind them and the days ahead—the days that have become so long and so heavy, but maybe they're lighter now, Josh thinks. Their lungs are breathing for each other, their hearts beating for each other, their minds racing for each other. Josh wants to memorize the way his hands fit on Sam's face, in his hair, the way their lips slot together like puzzle pieces. He wants to memorize the heat rising from Sam's cheeks, the way it kisses his face. He wants to memorize this moment. This moment is bigger than the persona Josh puts on, bigger than what happened in Rosslyn. Being that close to death will always be smaller than being this close to </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Your shadow, no matter how big it becomes, will always be behind you if you keep facing the sun. Josh has found his sun in Sam, and he can't help but smile against Sam's lips, breathe him in. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>sun</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pull away, breathless and giggling and blissful. Sam's blooming, with roses on his cheeks and irises in his eyes. He's never been this happy, and he's never been this beautiful. Josh has been in love for months, maybe years—he's realized this suddenly yet beautifully—yet he's fallen head over heels over and over again in this moment. He pulls Sam in for another kiss, short and messy and sweet and perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam kisses Josh's forehead again when he pulls away, then rubs their noses together, sighing sweetly, contentedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, I'm assuming you won't be sleeping on the couch," Josh teases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam chuckles as his blush burns brighter on his face, shaking his head. "I guess not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't worry, I won't try anything," Josh laughs. "I just wanna sleep." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's sleep, then," Sam beams, kissing Josh's forehead one more time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And if I have a nightmare, it's not your fault," Josh continues, barely able to speak past the joy in his chest. "I was shot earlier this year and I've been messed up ever since."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam chuckles lightly, blissfully. "Understood." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Kiss me again first," Josh says, running his thumb over the slope of Sam's cheekbone. "Then we can sleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh doesn't have to say another word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam kisses him again, soft yet deep, his love like a welcome breeze that blows through Josh's chest, fills it with all the things it carries with it. Josh is so used to choking on old blood that he'd forgotten how it feels to choke on newfound love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam doesn't stop kissing Josh as they stumble to their feet, moving to Josh's room. The kisses grow softer, sleepy as they change clothes. Sam is wearing one of Josh's old t-shirts, but it's too big for him. It exposes his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat. Josh stares for a moment, touches them with a frail, gentle touch. Sam shivers. He tilts Josh's chin up so they can kiss again, and Josh melts into it, a mess of relief and bliss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fall into Josh's bed, their lips brushing lazily off of each other. It's warm here, safe, and Josh doesn't remember the last time he felt like this. Neither does he remember falling asleep, nor dreaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh wakes the same way he fell asleep; to Sam's heartbeat drumming quietly in his ear, to the fabric of the shirt he let him borrow brushing softly against his cheek. He looks up at Sam through heavy, sleep-laden eyelids and sees that he's still fast asleep. He smiles, still too tired to fully grin, studying the curves of Sam's face made softer by sleep and sunli—  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait. It's Wednesday.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh turns as quickly as he can without waking Sam, sighing in relief when he sees his alarm clock reading 6:00. If it were as late as he thought it was, there was no way they would be able to explain themselves to the others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sam," Josh says, his voice groggy, gently shaking Sam. "It's 6AM." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmm?" Sam hums, blinking against the sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's 6 o'clock," Josh repeats, kissing Sam briefly to help wake him up. "We should leave soon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?" Sam groans. It's unclear to Josh whether waking up is making him grumpy or the fact that they're not kissing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You need your clothes, Sam," Josh chuckles. "You wearing my pajamas is one thing. You wearing my work clothes is a whole other beast that I'd rather not wake up. Besides, none of my clothes are actually the right size. They'd swallow you whole." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam smiles sleepily as the thought clearly seems to amuse him. "You're right," he sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe we could stop for breakfast, too," Josh smiles back, shrugging. "All I have here as far as breakfast is Pop-Tarts. Unless you want Pop-Tarts."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam chuckles, nearly dissolving into giggles. "What kinds do you have?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Frankly, I couldn't tell you," Josh laughs, too. "I just see Pop-Tarts written on the box and I throw it in the toaster and eat it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And when you go to the grocery store, it's the same process, you just throw them in the cart and buy them?" Sam asks, a teasing edge in his voice now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Probably," Josh admits, suddenly blushing and sheepish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's stop for breakfast," Sam replies, kissing Josh's forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm okay with that," Josh nods, his blush cooling to a warm pink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses Sam again, carefully moving off his bed to coax Sam out, too. Sam nearly falls off, but catches himself on the corner of the mattress. He shakes his head as Josh is doubled over with laughter, but he starts giggling, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, Sam, we gotta go," Josh urges through his laughing fit. He takes Sam's hands, lifting him off the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We should probably change your bandages again really quickly before we leave," Sam says, studying Josh's right hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh sighs, nodding. "We probably should. Go get the stuff and I'll get changed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should we take separate cars?" Sam asks, lingering by the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?" Josh asks, brow furrowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam shrugs. "Are we gonna show up at the White House at the same time?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's happened before, Sam," Josh reassures. "We've gotten breakfast and lunch together and taken the same car before. No one will think anything of it. Don't worry about it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam smiles, nodding. He slips out of the room, giving Josh a wink over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh smiles, too, releasing a sigh. He takes off his sweatpants first, trading them for his normal brown slacks. They're slightly wrinkled from folded haphazardly last night as he changed into his white-tie ensemble, but Josh doesn't mind. At least his shirt is neater than his slacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses, though, keeping his chin up as he takes his pajama shirt off, reminding himself over and over not to look down. He figures he could've waited for Sam to come back so he could help, but it's too late now. He starts putting on his shirt, relying on touch to get the buttons done correctly. He's fairly practiced at this now, but he still makes a mistake every once in a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finally looks down and sees he didn't miss any buttons this time, sighing in relief. Sam comes back, then, carrying the antiseptic and the bandages. He smiles when he sees Josh, crossing over to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now I feel underdressed," Sam jokes, looking down at Josh's old pajamas that he's wearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh feels the tension in his body ease as he chuckles. He cinches his belt around his waist, slightly loosening his shirt from its tuck. "That's all right," he sighs, buttoning his sleeves now. "We'll fix that soon." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me see your hand," Sam says, sitting on the bed and patting the spot next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh sits down, holding out his hand. Sam is still just as gentle as he was last night, even though the wound looks significantly better. He still has his other hand around Josh's wrist to steady him, anchor him as he winces from the burn of the antiseptic. He still carefully wraps the bandage around Josh's hand, as if making the smallest mistake would be devastating. He kisses Josh's bandaged knuckles when he's done, then moves on to Josh's lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," Josh smiles against Sam's lips, kissing him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have horrible morning breath," Sam replies, unable to tease him without laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I could say the same about you," Josh bites back, grinning. "I'll brush my teeth and then we'll go, okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam nods. "I'll drive." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's a good idea," Josh agrees, giving Sam one more quick kiss before rising from the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs as he enters the bathroom and sees his reflection. He looks the same he always does. No one would be able to tell that he had the worst few hours of his life the night before. He watches his reflection smile, watches its eyes wrinkle at the edges. He takes another deep breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans against the wall as he brushes his teeth, the same wall that stood beside him as he kissed Sam for the first time. He realizes just how much he hates the paint color—it's too dirty to call it white, but not pretty enough to call it off-white—but he smiles again because Sam </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. He could always repaint the wall, but it would still be </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> wall—the wall he leaned against as he fell completely in love, the wall he leaned against when he learned to lean against someone else when things got too heavy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spits out the extra toothpaste and rinses, taking one more look at his reflection. He nods once. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he goes to leave the bathroom, he bumps into Sam. Josh jumps back a bit, laughing once he realizes who it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry," Sam chuckles. "I was just gonna put the stuff back in here." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go ahead," Josh invites, sighing. "You scared me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I said I was sorry!" Sam defends, grinning. He puts the antiseptic and bandages in the cabinet beneath the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I guess I forgive you," Josh teases, shrugging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ready to go?" Sam asks, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just need to get my shoes on, but yeah," Josh replies. He bites his lip as he realizes something, trying to keep himself from laughing too hard. "Speaking of shoes…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I only have my dress shoes, I know," Sam sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh snorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's still early, not too many people will see," Sam reasons, giggling. "I'll be fine. It'll be fine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh pulls Sam in for a deep, wet kiss as his heart bursts with joy again. If only the White House, the country, the world could pause so he could have this moment just a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ready to go?" Sam asks again as he pulls away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods. "Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh sighs heavily as he lingers by the door, watching Stanley and Kaytha walk down the hallway. He leans against the wall, savoring all the words he didn't say on his tongue. They're slightly bitter, dark like ink, and they leave a hungry pit in his chest, his stomach. They're hard to ignore, but not as hard as trying to push away memories of Rosslyn. He definitely feels better having some answers, but he wishes he had just a few more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head as he re-enters the room, picking up his coat and shrugging it on. The room is empty and dark except for the Christmas lights twinkling outside the window. They're prettier than Josh would probably like to admit. He's inclined to compare them to stars. Of course the White House could afford to pluck stars from the sky itself to decorate for Christmas. He admires the lights for a moment, supposing it was worth a try to see if they would give him the answers he needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's voice interrupts his reverie. "How'd it go?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh turns around, smiling when he sees Sam's face. But he shrugs. "Not quite as well as I'd hoped, but that was my own fault."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam crosses the room to reach him, the slightest bit of worry creasing his face. "How so?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was being myself," Josh shrugs again. "Stubborn and cocky. You know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Sam chuckles, a bit nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They, uh," Josh begins, but he starts choking on the words. "They gave me a diagnosis."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes Josh's hand, squeezes it tightly. "What is it?" he asks softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Post-traumatic stress disorder," Josh replies in a rush, in a hurry to get the words out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam squeezes much harder for a moment, and Josh knows it was just a reaction, but it still eats at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did he say anything about treatment?" Sam asks kindly, and Josh is thankful he didn't expand on his initial reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh shakes his head. "Just that he'll find me a therapist once the holidays are over. So I have two weeks to stew before I can get more help. And he also told me that I should stop breaking windows when I get suicidal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's it?" Sam asks, his brow furrowed. "It sounds like that guy was kind of a jerk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He was," Josh agrees. "But I think that's what I need. Someone who won't beat around the bush or let things slide."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Sam smiles, at ease now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And… there's something else you should know," Josh begins, remembering the big revelation of the session.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam nods. "Okay. What is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh bites his lip, trying to chew the right words out of his mouth. "This really is hard for me to talk about," he chuckles dryly, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath, nodding through his next sentence. "He said that for whatever reason, in my head, music sounds like sirens. And since my brain is hearing sirens, it starts reliving the shooting. It triggers an episode."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Bach suite," Sam mutters, the pieces coming together in his mind. "The music in the lobby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Josh nods. "I was like a pressure cooker, Sam. It just so happened that Yo-Yo Ma was the lucky guy that made me explode." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam nods, taking his other hand and putting it over Josh's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So," Josh begins, a half-smile appearing on his face. "No more 'New York Minute' for you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's mouth drops open, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He starts to argue, but it only comes out in stutters. He sighs, shrugging. "That's okay. I can live without it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can you?" Josh challenges teasingly, raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam shakes his head, masks his laughter with a half-cough/half-scoff and takes away his hands. "That's it. No more hand-holding." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey," Josh laughs, reaching for Sam's hands. He manages to grab his right hand, latching on as tightly as he can. He tugs Sam forward, swings their intertwined hands back and forth. "Sam," he begins, sighing deeply. He hates that his mood can sour so quickly, even with Sam holding his hand, but the same thought keeps coming back to him: "What if the President or Leo fires me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why would they do that?" Sam asks, almost appalled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The PTSD," Josh replies, the word still not forming quite right in his mouth. "I have an episode and I get angry and scared and I can't control myself. Why would someone like that work for the President, let alone be let inside the White House? I mean, I blew up in the President's face. You… You don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. You don't get away with it, at least. I wanted to ask Stanley if he could change it to something else when he told me, but I couldn't do it. I just sat there like an idiot and nodded and I can't try and ask him now because he got the hell out of Dodge—"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a soft knock at the door then, and Josh immediately lets go of Sam's hand. He looks up and sees Leo, an unreadable expression on his face. Josh bites his tongue to keep himself from blurting a word he knows Leo won't like, schools his expression and posture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry, I was just checking on you," Leo says, stepping into the room. "Josh, do you mind if I speak to you alone?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words terrify him more than they would normally, but Josh is already worried about his job. Now that his boss is asking to speak alone, he can only imagine the worst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, of course," Sam responds politely, sending a sympathetic look to Josh over his shoulder. He walks out briskly, shutting the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's an almost unbearable moment of silence, but Josh is too afraid to be the one to break it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"PTSD, huh?" Leo asks, his voice flat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods. "Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We won't fire you because you have PTSD, Josh," Leo tells him, shaking his head. "We would've fired you three times over for the Mary Marsh incident before we would </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> consider firing you for this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh chuckles lightly at the mention of Marsh, but his worries ease away. "Thank you, Leo. I really appreciate it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mind if I tell you a quick story, Josh?" Leo asks, smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any other day, Josh would've rolled his eyes and groaned, but tonight he smiles back and nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep, he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'hey, you! Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down the hole and then moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole, can you help me out?' The priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and then moves on. Then a friend walks by. 'Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out.'" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods, giving Leo a wobbly, tearful smile. "You're the friend," he says, wiping a tear from his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leo smiles back, chuckling softly. "You'll always have a place here, Josh. Especially now. None of us are gonna let you suffer like you did just because we thought you didn't need us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh nods again, letting out a trembling breath. "I know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leo's smile turns into a playful smirk suddenly. "I'm glad you have Sam on your side now, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's brow furrows. "Sam has always been on my side," he replies. "What do you mean?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't have to worry about him going after my daughter anymore," Leo explains, but not vaguely enough that Josh can't understand. "Thanks for that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh's eyes widen, and his tongue starts to stutter before he can tell it to force an explanation. "Leo, Sam and I—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's okay, Josh," Leo reassures him. "You two are good for each other."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh sighs in relief, his smile returning. "Thanks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'll let him take you to the hospital now?" Leo asks expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh shakes his head, chuckling. He nods, shrugging. "I've put it off long enough now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Goodnight, Josh," Leo smiles warmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Night, Leo," Josh returns, waving as he opens the door to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam is waiting just outside, somehow looking more anxious than he's been in much more serious events than this. He smiles when he sees Josh, though, hope shining in his eyes. "What'd he say?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not getting fired," Josh grins. "And also that we make a good match."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's smile drops into a shocked gape, blinking wildly. "He—he knows?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think he overheard our teasing, Sam," Josh chuckles. "Or maybe he saw us holding hands." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam relaxes, smiling bashfully and shaking his head. "Probably."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh reaches for Sam's hand, his fingers brushing against his. Their hands interlock almost instantly, falling into place together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So," Sam begins, smiling warmly. "My place or yours?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was, uh," Josh trails off, smiling sheepishly. "I was hoping you'd take me to the hospital."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam perks up. "Really?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Neither of us are doctors," Josh replies, his smile widening as he sees Sam blush again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We sure aren't," Sam laughs. "Come on. I'll take you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallways are almost completely empty as they make their way out of the White House, and they never feel the need to let go of each other's hands or stand further apart. It's quiet, but peacefully so.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Sam opens the last door for Josh, he immediately notices an unforgiving chill in the air and the ringing of sleighbells. He feels himself tense, feels his breath catch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just beyond the gate, there's a small group of carolers singing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Carol of the Bells</span>
  </em>
  <span>, their voices projecting remarkably well in the open air. They're talented, obviously, performing the complicated, clustered harmonies with the appearance of ease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh feels Sam's hand slip out of his. He doesn't know if Sam let go because of the people around or if Josh is rushing to leave and get away from the music. Either way, he feels a little lost, a little distant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself stopping, maybe afraid to keep moving without Sam by his side. He watches the carolers' bells bob up and down to the beats and stresses of the melody, the open and operatic mouths of the carolers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes the bells match the timbre of a woman's scream that was closer to him than the others. High-pitched, silvery, almost staccato. He starts hearing the scream instead of the bells. His vision starts to blur, either from tears or from phasing between now and Rosslyn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Josh," Sam's voice barely breaks through the trance. Josh notices Sam's hand on his shoulder more than him saying his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows the lump in his throat, nodding. A tear rolls down his cheek, colder than ice. "Sorry," he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam pushes Josh gently until he starts walking forward, facing forward. The music, the screams, are behind him now, but they still bite at the nape of his neck, his earlobes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they're out of earshot, Sam pulls Josh aside where no one can see them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Does your flight leave in the morning?" Josh asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"First thing," Sam replies. "I'll probably take you home from the hospital then drive to the airport."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Josh nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll give you my parents' phone number," Sam says. "You can call me whenever you need to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You haven't left yet, Sam," Josh chuckles. "We still have time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We do," Sam agrees, kissing Josh softly, sweetly. He rests their foreheads together, and Josh's heartbeat slows at the warmth of Sam's skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hold me?" Josh asks, his voice more timid than it's ever been. "Just for a minute?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Sam can say anything, Josh stumbles into his arms. He can't breathe, so he lets himself feel Sam's chest rising and falling against his soothe him, remind him that he's not alone anymore and he never will be again. He lets Sam breathe for him for a moment, until Josh's lungs remember how to again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam's embrace is warm, as relieving as a life-saving drink of water. It's safe. It's amazing how quickly Josh trusted this place, Sam's arms. As soon as he felt it like this, full of </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he knew this is where he belonged. He doesn't need to stay here forever, either. He knows Sam will be there when he needs him. And that's all he needs in a place. That whenever he leaves, he knows where to find it and that it'll be there when he comes back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few minutes, Josh is breathing by himself again, and the screaming has subsided. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stanley said this won't happen every time I hear music," Josh says softly. "Because I'll get better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You will," Sam replies, holding Josh a little tighter. He kisses his jaw, his cheek, his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I feel better when you hold me," Josh tells him, the words true and sure on his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll hold you whenever you need me to," Sam promises, and Josh feels Sam's small, tearful smile against his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh takes another breath, deep and easy. "I'm ready to go now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Sam nods, waiting for Josh to let go first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh leaves a whisper of a kiss on Sam's cheek as he pulls away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh smiles, relieved.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(me, typing out leo's man in the hole story word for word: hey if it ain't broke don't fix it)</p><p>i hope you enjoyed this!! please feel free to leave some feedback if you like, it absolutely makes my day!</p><p>i hope you're well and safe, and i hope you have a good day/night/week!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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